Operation Winter Weather
by AnxietyGrrl
Summary: In a universe with different odds, an encounter at an Avengers Christmas party leaves Bucky Barnes wondering what it is about Natasha Romanoff that he can't get out of his head. (Post-some AU version of Endgame that leaves us mostly status quo)
1. Chapter 1

"Are you _sure_ I'm invited to this thing?"

"Sure. I mean, 'invited'..."

"I knew it." Bucky pulled at his collar and considered yanking off the borrowed necktie. He didn't know how he let Steve talk him into this.

"It's fine, you're my plus one. I ran it by Tony."

"You did?"

The elevator clattered up to the 20th floor, although the motion was too smooth for its old-money antique appearance; the clatter was just for show. What Tony Stark referred to as his "place in the city" and most people now called Stark Tower Central Park West had been fully retrofitted with the latest proprietary tech. Fitting the billionaire's new, humble lifestyle, the building was merely a modest early twentieth century architectural gem, hardly gleaming at all, and definitely not soaring. Just tall enough to see over the neighbors. And not to be confused with the new Stark Tower South, an 1800' spire now under construction in Hoboken, which was the new Chelsea, which was the new somewhere else—by that point Bucky had stopped listening to the cabbie.

"Well, I ran it by Pepper."

Bucky slammed the Lobby button, but nothing happened; the buttons were for show, too. "You and your loopholes."

"It's _fine_, don't worry. We're all on the same page. Clean slate! Fresh start. New year, new universe."

"How are you so believable even when you're full of shit?"

"Because I'm _not_ full of...it, and we're all going to have a good time at this party, and no one's going to put anyone through a wall."

"If you say so." The elevator _dinged_ as they reached the penthouse floor. "Sounds like a dull party, though."

A robot took their overcoats—an Iron Coatcheck, he guessed, and a good way not to pay your staff—and Bucky hung back in the small vestibule while Steve strode ahead. "You know, 'plus one' is so you could bring a girl," he called. "Not some tagalong loser with no other friends."

Steve turned. "Sure, 'cause you never brought your loser friend along anywhere. Come on, you're being dumb."

Bucky caught up and muttered, "Did it have to be black tie? Did he do it just to be an asshole?"

"Of course he did. Anyway, you look great. Think of it like wearing your dress uniform."

He had kind of liked that, in the old days. Getting spiffed up. But today was not the old days. Bucky fidgeted, pulling on his gray velvet sleeve at the shoulder. "The jacket doesn't fit right."

"Things fit slimmer now."

Steve, the modernity expert. Bucky had experienced the passage of time and progress like a flipbook, stick drawings flickering by in the corner, without ever getting to see what was on the rest of the page. Sometimes he was annoyed at how quickly Steve, coming in quite literally cold, had picked all this stuff up. But it made sense that he had attacked it like a homework assignment, with the zeal of someone who'd spent a lot of his life as an outsider desperately trying to fit in. He guessed they'd both done their time as outsiders now.

The apartment was bigger than an apartment had any business being, but that was usual for this part of town. The room, which was more like a hall, where the party was centered was pretty much what he expected. Shiny wood, a cascading staircase, expensive rugs over marble floors, a roaring fireplace at each end—classic rich person stuff. A tree that had to be twelve feet tall, decorated in crystal; real fir fronds hanging from every doorway, molding, and beam. It smelled like…

_...The pines...or were they spruce?...either way they were shelter enough for now. It took a long time for him to get tired, but he was tired now, and the one beside him was exhausted. The snow no longer crunching underneath their boots, but spilling over the tops. And night falling, and the hunters coming, and their trail so plain…_

"The taiga..." When he shook himself out of it, Steve was staring at him with concern.

"Buck? You still here?"

"Yeah. Just a flash. Happens sometimes."

"Want to talk about it?"

It would be a good excuse to get out of here. "Absolutely not."

Steve clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, then. Let's mingle."

It wasn't a big crowd. "Just family," Steve had said, which meant mostly Avengers and adjunct Avengers, or whatever they called them. So really more of a work party, with most attendees dressed to the nines. A few, like him, had bent the rules. Then again, maybe those were their formal capes. The host and hostess were holding court in the center of the room, in matching understated black, which must have been Potts's doing, since it was the only thing at the party that was understated. It was easy to tell when they spotted Bucky and Steve's entrance, because Stark started rolling his eyes and gesticulating at his wife.

"See?" Bucky hissed.

Steve watched for a minute and then shook his head, smug. He tugged on the hem of his midnight blue tuxedo jacket and straightened his already-straight silk bow tie. "He's complaining that I look better in a tux than he does."

"You read lips?"

"You don't? Heads up, they're coming over."

Tony Stark opened his arms wide, all gregariousness. "Captain!" He tilted his head and said flatly, "Sergeant." Pepper Potts put her hand on her husband's elbow.

"Merry Christmas, Tony." Steve hugged him and kissed Pepper's cheek. "Thank you for having us." He looked at Bucky.

"Oh. Yeah, thanks. It's...real decent of you." Steve smiled in approval, like everything was going really well.

"Well," Stark said, drawing out the word, "It is the holidays, after all. In the spirit of peace on earth and goodwill to men… Sure, eat my food and drink my booze. It's a new world, right? Welcome to it."

Steve appeared genuinely touched. "Thanks, Tony, that's really—"

"Calm down, scooter, we're not gonna be friends."

Bucky silently agreed.

"Well," said Steve, and looked around at the decor. "This is all...really something."

"Subtle, isn't it?" said Pepper.

"You don't like the ice sculpture? She doesn't like the ice sculpture."

Sitting by the bar was a three hundred pound ice Infinity Gauntlet, the middle finger ever so slightly more prominently extended.

"Wow, I...don't know how I didn't see that as soon as we walked in," said Steve.

"It's _bragging_," Pepper said, obviously not for the first time.

"We saved the universe, babe, we get to brag."

"Hey, so where's Morgan?" Steve asked. He always was uncomfortable with bragging.

"Rehearsing," Stark answered. "We're going to have her do a little song and dance number like _The Sound of Music._ She's upstairs with the nanny, this is a grownup party."

Steve held up the brightly wrapped package he'd been carrying with him. "I brought her a gift."

"Oh, awesome!" Stark grabbed the box and shook it next to his ear. "I bet it's made of wood."

"I'm sure she'll love it," said Pepper.

"For real, that's very sweet." Stark pointed over his shoulder. "Now I'm gonna go pretend to check that the grazing table is decadent enough before this gets awkward. Gentlemen!"

"It's _very_ decadent," Pepper said, not quite apologetically, before following her husband.

"What's a grazing table?" asked Steve.

Bucky shrugged. "What's _The Sound of Music_?"

"That one I know. It's a movie. Do you remember—?"

He interrupted him. "Buddy, I don't actually care." Piano music started up, and he saw that another recommissioned IronTM robot had sat down and started playing carols at the baby grand. People were clustered in twos or threes, talking, eating, drinking, while he and Steve were still standing in the same spot. Had he actually forgotten what to do at parties?

He must have looked tense, because Steve said, "Relax. Think of it like going to the canteen. Have a drink. Talk to some girls."

"What girls?"

Steve gestured at the room. "There's Wanda, you could talk to her."

Wanda Maximoff was a stunner in her high-necked red gown, like some kind of spooky nun. It complemented her date, whom she was currently pulling into a doorway and under some mistletoe.

"Seems like she's busy."

"Oh. Well, maybe later."

"He's...a _robot_, right?"

"No, he's a person," Steve chided. "I mean, not a _person _person. _Sort of_ a robot, yeah. He's a nice guy." He glanced at them again, and turned away, embarrassed at their public canoodling. "But yeah, let's not bother them now. Who else, who else…?"

"You don't have to try so hard." But Steve kept pointing out attractive brunettes for him to practice socializing on.

A petite, intense-looking beauty was deep in conversation with Doctor Strange. "That's Jane Foster. She's a physicist, so you could ask her about...science stuff." A woman in a shimmery pantsuit was chatting animatedly with Happy Hogan, and Steve said, "That's...I'm not sure who she is. But she looks approachable. Over there with Bruce... Oh, hey, that's Betty Ross. Wow, good for him." A woman with a broad smile and a kind face was taking hors d'oeuvres off Banner's overstacked plate. In his red dinner jacket, the Hulk looked both very festive and like the world's largest valet.

"Look, there's Hill. You could...I don't know...guns? And— Oh." A blonde turned to take a glass of champagne off a passing Iron Waiter's tray. Sharon Carter. Steve wheeled and tried to duck behind him. "I'm going to go, uh, food." He shuffled behind a column and toward the buffet.

Bucky mouthed "Chickenshit" at him as he went. _Read that._

He surveyed the conversation cells again, preparing to suck it up and select a target, when the elevator _dinged_ behind him, reminding him how long he'd had his back to the door. He turned, and a short burst of breath escaped him, like after a friendly sock in the gut.

In the vestibule, Natasha Romanoff was shedding her overcoat, handing it off to the attendant with one graceful arm. She paused, probably scoping out the room, but she was framed in the doorway like a full-length portrait in a museum. Her fiery hair was softly waved and curled at the ends, in a style that was familiar to him but probably old-fashioned now. It set off the forest green of her gown—velvet, from the way it caught and absorbed the light—which flowed to the floor but didn't drag. Smart—no chance of tripping in a fight. Her sleeves were gathered at the shoulders and puffed out slightly, a demure touch that contrasted with the deep V neckline that plunged almost to her waist.

She briefly clasped her hands below that waistband, and smiled at someone across the room. His brain took a snapshot, without waiting for instruction or permission, and her gaze darted his way, as if she'd heard the imaginary shutter click. She smiled at him then, a different kind of smile that he couldn't quite read, and he raised his hand lamely. They had run into each other a few times since the big battle, but he still knew her mostly as Steve's friend and that-woman-I-tried-to-kill-a-few-times. She'd sworn that she didn't hold it against him, but he thought that was probably the reason he always felt so off-kilter when she was around. Sure, she was beautiful; but every woman here was beautiful, and beautiful women had never been a mystery to him before.

She glided into the party, and he turned for the bar. If he couldn't get drunk, at least he could respect tradition.

The voice of Stark's AI came out of a speaker on the Iron Bartender's head. "What'll it be?"

"Vodka, neat."

"Coming right up!" The robot leaned in as it served him, and the AI's lilting voice said, "I know who you are, you know." He heard the whir of cameras repositioning and took the warning, thinking maybe he should pocket some silver on his way out just to make it worth her while. He wondered again what had made him agree to show his face in Stark territory.

He finished his drink and ordered a second. "Merry Christmas!" the AI chirped. "What'll it be?" For a second he thought it had glitched, but it wasn't addressing him. It was asking the woman who had snuck up on him again.

"Same," said Natasha, leaning on the bar. "Chilled glass, please." The mirror on the bar back defeated his attempt to look away from that dress.

When they got their drinks, she held hers up, and he realized she was prompting a toast. "Merry Christmas," he offered.

She clinked her glass against his and said, "Happy Holidays. We're all still here." She took a long sip and sighed with satisfaction. "Stereotype, I know. But Tony always brings in the good stuff for a party."

"What do you usually drink?"

"Whatever the occasion calls for."

"I guess that's part of being a spy."

"Or a well-rounded person."

He smiled at that. If she was working him, it was working. He didn't know why she _would_ be, but he didn't know a lot of things about her. This was already one of the longest conversations they'd ever had.

Her hair bounced as she gestured for another round. "Didn't expect to see you at this shindig."

He _had_ expected to see her, he realized now. So maybe he did know, at least partly, why he'd let himself be dragged here in the first place. "Disappointed?"

"Not at all." She smiled. They both noticed Steve approaching, and she said, "Otherwise I'd be looking at this one's sad puppy-dog face all night."

"Well, you know, I've gotta keep him out of trouble."

Steve stepped up to the bar and put an arm around each of them. "Unbelievable lies. Huge lies, both of you. And at Christmas." He hugged Natasha, then stepped back and stared at her, all awestruck and aw-shucks. "Wow. You look incredible. Doesn't she?"

Before Bucky could answer, Natasha cut in with, "Thanks. It's off the rack."

"I don't know what that means, but you look terrific. Like a movie star." He turned to Bucky again. "Doesn't she?"

"Sure," he said, wishing Steve would shut up. _A movie star_, maybe that was it. Maybe that was why she drew his attention, why she seemed...familiar. Maybe she just looked like someone, some other gorgeous dame from a long time ago. "Sure does."

"Well," she looked down, perhaps embarrassed by Steve's big brother effusiveness. "You clean up pretty nice yourselves." She ran a hand over Steve's lapel. "And _you_. It's kind of infuriating, actually. You're not even _trying_."

"I try a little bit," Steve protested.

Then they all ducked as a stream of webbing zipped over their heads, grabbed a sprig of mistletoe off the chandelier, and deposited it onto the banister above Peter Parker and his girl, who rolled her eyes but kissed him anyway.

It was only then that Bucky noticed there was mistletoe...everywhere. Not just in that one doorway, and not just on the chandelier, but tucked into garlands and wreaths, set like traps. "Who does this?" he muttered. "Where do you get it? Have you even seen that stuff in real life?"

A booming voice said, "Of course!" and someone heartily slapped Bucky's back, sending him stumbling forward. Natasha's hand landed on his chest, stopping his progress. His focus fell into her wide eyes, slid down her fascinating nose, sunk into her dark red lips pressed together in a reluctant smile. All the while, Thor was going on and on about Yule.

"Many a year I visited Midgard, disguised as a humble beggar, to partake of the Midwinter feasts. Rams were sacrificed in my honor! So many delicious rams. Spiced honey mead! And mistletoe, of course; it's a fertility symbol, you know, that's why the—" He made a hand motion that was probably vulgar to Vikings. "And the maidens! The maidens..." he trailed off in a momentary reverie, then crashed back into his story. "And men dressed as terrifying beasts, dancing around the great bonfires, chanting under their hideous masks to ward off the evil spirits who dwelt in the darkness," his voice rose to a thundering crescendo, drawing the attention of the party, "and lo, they pled to their gods, 'BRING BACK THE LIGHT!'"

After a moment's silence, Steve said, "Playing it up a little, aren't you, Thor?"

"A little bit, yes. Anyway, bringing back the light wasn't really our thing, but we let them think it. What could it hurt, right? 'Bring back the light!'" he said again, this time in a wan, pleading voice, and chuckled. "Great parties, though. But this," he gestured with his champagne flute, "This is nice too, I guess." He drained his glass and slammed it down on the bar. "Now! More of this Gallic elixir!"

That was enough to break up their little party. Natasha adjusted the knot on Bucky's tie, and stepped back. "There," she said lightly. "Better."

He felt himself grin, creaky at first like a rusty bicycle; the kind of grin that had been locked up in the shed for a long time, unused. "Thanks." He'd known it was a little sloppy, but he'd had trouble with the satin fabric slipping through his fingers on his left hand, and had given up. "If I ever have to wear one of these again, I hope you're around."

"Hm," was all she said, and her eyebrows lifted.

Thor muscled between them to wait for his drink, looking from one to the other. "So what's this? Is this happening?" They both looked away without answering. He leaned over the bar and banged on the counter. "Metal man! My libation!"

"Maybe you've had enough, big guy," Natasha said.

"I'm not drunk," he insisted. "This is just my personality. I'm a party guy. I love parties."

"Okay, let's go talk to Jane, then."

"That's right, Jane's here!" He led her away, excited.

Natasha threw a look back over her shoulder, and her profile carved itself onto Bucky's brain, the line smooth and sharp, as if a template were already there.

Beside him, Steve cleared his throat. "So…"

He picked up Thor's forgotten champagne and looked down into the glass. "So what?"

"_Is _this happening? "

Bucky played dumb. "Is what happening?"

He could see Steve's wheels begin to turn. He was too keen; it was annoying. "Come on, I know what that was. I've seen it enough times before. Like at the canteen, remember?"

Bucky downed the champagne. It didn't affect him, but she was right, Stark did spring for the good stuff. "Pal, even I don't know what that was."

* * *

Natasha circulated. She caught up with Rhodey, said hello to Wong, and ran into Happy by the caviar station.

"You're not working tonight, are you?"

"No, I am a _guest_."

"Don't you have your own family to hang out with this time of year?"

"Oh," he said, lifting another blini to his mouth, "They'd have to pay me."

She found Bruce—he was hard to miss—and he shyly introduced her to Betty Ross, who was instantly likable, with a sweet, friendly demeanor and a firm handshake. Bruce seemed happy, and she was glad to see it, but she didn't linger long.

Tony bumped into her side while she was examining his ridiculous tree. She'd seen him coming. "Agent Romanoff, Merry Christmas."

"Hi, Tony. You really went for it, here, huh?"

"This? This is _stately._ You should see the one Pepper talked me out of. We would have had to open up the roof."

He was probably planning a reason to open up the roof anyway. The lower floors of the building were already closed for mysterious renovations, the strange noises and coming-and-goings of equipment causing a lot of talk and out-of-joint noses in the neighborhood. But Tony had left the upper floors alone for now, and had lent her the use of an absurdly extravagant four-bedroom apartment to use as a pied-à-terre while she was in the city.

"How's the seventeenth floor?"

"It's lovely, thank you. I'm going to sublet it to a family of six."

"Enterprising, I like it."

"Is Morgan around? I haven't seen her."

"We're going to let her sneak down later. It's more fun that way."

"That does sound fun." It was an honest assessment, but she wasn't sure it came off that way. She was thinking more of "having a childhood" than "being a parent", but she didn't want to see a sympathetic look either way. But it was Tony, so he hid it well.

"So Pa Ingalls never RSVP'd, which was _very _rude. I assume he's having his own holiday hoedown down in Hooterville."

She'd learned to interpret his references even if she didn't always get them. "Yes, Tony, Clint is with his family. I'm stopping by there later this week, do you want me to bring him some leftovers?"

"No, we've got a Dumpster out back. Actually it's all going to corporate. And Pepper donated an equal amount to the food bank on top of our annual gift."

"Look at you. The founder of the feast."

"Seasonal literary reference, very nice." He reached out and fiddled with a crystal snowflake, moved a silver icicle, adjusted a twinkling LED. All this, in lieu of a verbal segue. "Can you believe that Barnes showed up?"

"I can't believe you let him in the building," she said, testing the direction of the conversation. "You used to want him dead."

"Well, he was dead, so...I guess we all got what we wanted."

"It means a lot to Steve, you know."

"Sure, I know. I'm very magnanimous with my friends. Don't expect to see him at every backyard barbecue, though."

"I didn't expect to see him here," she said.

"Didn't you?" he said, narrowing his eyes like a TV detective.

"What?"

"This whole…" he waved his hand in front of her, "...Rita Hayworth get-up. What's that for?"

She blinked innocently. "I don't know what you mean."

"Come on, Natasha." Before she could plot how to steer away, he threw a spike in the road. "I read your file."

"That's not _in_ my file," she said sharply, and knew immediately she was a fool.

"Got you! I knew there was _something _going on."

"Nothing that's any of your business. How did you—? I gave you _nothing_."

"I have a million eyes." A robot waiter swerved its head in their direction.

"That's creepy as hell, Tony."

"Uh huh. Be careful, okay?" He gave her a stern look that he had to know was futile. Then he walked away, moving his finger in an expansive circle above his head. "A million eyes, baby!"

Nat swore in Russian, the best language for swearing, and looked up at the towering silver spruce. The way the decorations glistened in the soft light could almost trick the eye into seeing snow-covered boughs at the top. She plucked a few needles, crushed and smelled them.

Recon; tonight was just supposed to be about recon. Now she might have to move up her timetable.


	2. Chapter 2

Bucky might not have even noticed the terrace if Carol Danvers hadn't alighted on it and made a dramatic late entrance to the festivities, ending the debate about who looked best in a tuxedo. Normally he was hyper-aware of every way in and out of a place, and where he could make one if it didn't exist yet. But he was...distracted. First by Steve and his cajoling meet-and-greets, then by the truly staggering catered spread—there were entire years in the thirties he hadn't seen that much food—and always by trying to catch that flash of red, that hint of forest green in the corner of his eye. Natasha zig-zagged through the party, as if she were trying to lose a tail. He didn't think he was being _that_ obvious, and he wasn't intentionally following her. But he was antsy, incapable of staying in one place for too long—and Steve's frequent encouragements weren't helping. At the same time, he was trying to politely avoid Tony Stark, who seemed to be everywhere. The huge apartment had somehow become too small.

So he was out on the wide terrace getting some air, unbothered by the mild chill and slight damp of a New York December night. He looked out at the Upper West Side, never a neighborhood he'd spent much time in. Too far south to see Washington Heights, where he and Steve had gone to school. Not high up enough to see Queens beyond the skyline on the East Side. He leaned out over the stone balustrade to get a better look at the park, the sound of traffic stopping and starting on Central Park West temporarily overpowering the music drifting through the penthouse's French doors.

"Don't jump," said a wry feminine voice. The unexpectedness of it sent a _zip_ like a trailing fingernail from between his shoulders to the back of his neck. "If you ruin that jacket, you can't return it."

He turned, casual, as if she hadn't surprised him once again. "You think I should return it?" He had been unsure about not matching the gray dinner jacket with his black pants and calfskin ankle boots, and self-conscious about the fabric, but he had also resented being forced into formalwear, and Sam had assured him that this would do. Then Sam had backed out of this event in favor of spending time with his family in Anacostia, because he was the closest to a well-adjusted, normal person among their odd, ragged association.

Natasha appraised him quickly, the weight of her gaze never settling, leaving him feeling like loose pages ready to blow away in the breeze. "No, keep it," she decided. "You might need to wear it again."

"I might need a tailor," he said, not sure why he was still talking about the damn jacket. "I can hardly move my arms enough to throw a punch."

She smiled, but bit down on it, like it had startled her. "I like your priorities." She came closer until she stood beside him at the balustrade. "You don't have to button it." Before he could move, she had reached over and released the button with one deft hand. "Better?" He rolled his shoulders a little, ignoring the twitching fist in his stomach. "Don't throw a punch," she joked.

In another circumstance, in another era, with another woman, he'd know what this was, and what came next. He'd demonstrate his range of motion by putting his arm around her waist. Or he'd shrug off the jacket and gallantly drape it over her shoulders. It was so easy to imagine that other guy doing that, with one of those other girls.

"You cold?" he asked her. Her body language said no, but he hadn't failed to notice her reddening cheeks, or the gooseflesh rising along her breastbone.

"Are you kidding? This is spring where I'm from."

"Right," he said. An acknowledgment, and a reminder, that they had both experienced a deeper chill.

She looked out over the park for a moment, and it struck him suddenly that maybe she had come out here to be alone, like he had, and prepared to make his retreat, when she asked, "Got a light?"

She had pulled a cigar from..._somewhere_ in her dress. He didn't ponder that mystery too long. He reached into his jacket for the matchbook he still carried out of habit, along with a knife, a money clip, and, usually, extra ammo, which he'd reluctantly left behind tonight because Sam told him it "ruined the line." "I do, actually." He held out the matchbook in his palm, but the extra second she waited with the cigar in her hand clued him in that she wanted him to do the honors. That other guy would have done it automatically.

He struck the match against his thumb and she leaned in, blowing out the flame when the end had caught. She held the cigar out in front of her, positioned gracefully between her fingers, considering it for a minute before putting it to her mouth. "From Tony's stash," she explained. "Pepper lets him pretend to sneak one, once a year. But usually he just hands them out to friends." She took a puff, one shallow inhale.

"You smoke?"

"When the occasion calls for it," she said, the enigmatic spy once again, before smiling and shaking her head. "No, not really."

"No one does anymore," he observed.

"Yeah, there's been some news about that since 1945. Turns out it'll kill you. Well. Maybe not _you._" She held out the cigar to him, and he took it, carefully avoiding her fingers.

He turned it in his hand until he found a natural way to hold it, and for a second he was in a different time and place. "Smells like the outside of an Officer's Club. Although I don't think they ever smoked anything this swank."

"Neither did my officers. Usually they were sucking down tar in filterless cigarettes."

He nodded in recognition, stumbling forward in his own timeline. "That's right. This one old prick, they actually called him Colonel Belomor, like the brand. Yellow fingers, yellow teeth. _Terrible _breath."

"I know the type."

He looked at her, her easy lean against the parapet, her carefully neutral smile, and was struck by all the coincidences that had to happen to lead them to this particular conversation on this particular moonlit terrace. "Be funny if it was the same guy, wouldn't it?"

She tilted her chin down, but he caught her smile flicker out for an instant before she answered, smooth and a little arch, "Yeah, wouldn't that be something."

With nothing to say to that, he finally took a drag on the cigar, but his pristine lungs spoiled his Humphrey Bogart moment. No longer accustomed to tobacco, even the really expensive kind, they rebelled, and he strained not to cough. "Maybe I won't take this up again," he said, handing it back to her. Thank god Steve hadn't seen that.

"It's for the best," she said. At least she wasn't laughing. She put the cigar to her lips and puffed slowly and deliberately; then her lips formed an alluring oval, and she blew out one perfect ring of smoke. He watched her while she watched it waft and dissolve in the night air.

"I bet that trick really used to work on the marks," he said. From the way it had just worked on him, he wondered if he was one of them.

"Once or twice," she admitted, and stubbed out the cigar on the rail, leaving a smear of ash on the white stone. She traced a line through it with one fingernail, short and square and cranberry red. "It would be nice if we got some snow." She leaned on her forearms and craned her neck a little, looking out over the park, but making a much prettier picture up here. "I love the park when it snows."

"Yeah," he agreed, and tore his eyes away from her to follow her gaze. A phrase popped into his head, the way things sometimes did, as if they were waving little signs—hello, here we are again. "'The park is for the people.' I had a high school teacher who said that. God, I haven't thought about that in—" He exhaled, uninterested in doing the math, and his breath fogged; the temperature had dropped. "Of course rich guys went and built a wall of money around it."

"Does that happen to you a lot, since you've been back in the city? Things just...coming back to you?" she asked. Lightly, like smalltalk, and then brushed past it like the answer was barely of interest. "_Is _this your first time back in the city?"

"First time that wasn't for a, uh…'business trip', yeah. Wasn't too interested in sightseeing back then."

"Is that what you've been doing? Tourist stuff? Times Square? The M&Ms Store?"

He laughed. "Not quite. Steve's been dragging me around to a bunch of places in the old neighborhood. But...the old neighborhood's not the old neighborhood anymore."

"I guess not," she said, with genuine sympathy.

"I think he's testing me," he confessed. "I don't think he realizes it, though."

She smiled. "No, he wouldn't."

"Anyway, I'm probably not moving back to Brooklyn. Maybe you can answer a question for me, though."

"I'll try my best."

"What's kombucha?"

That amused her, as predicted, and it was the first time he saw a little surprise on her face. It lit it up in a very nice way. "It's fermented tea. It's not new. Siberian babas make it."

"Do they know they can get fifteen bucks a bottle if they make it in Greenpoint?" She tossed her hair when she laughed. But not on purpose, he thought. The air was getting colder, but maybe, just maybe, she was melting a little.

They both looked toward the penthouse as inside, the high-toned solo piano was switched out for a jazz combo—probably also composed of robots—that launched into an uptempo number. Natasha tapped her fingers on the rail. "So how's baby's first Christmas?"

He laughed again. "I guess it is, kind of. It's… Well, I'll let you know when it's over."

"I remember mine," she said. "It was..._weird_. You don't exactly feel like you're part of it. Even when people try to include you."

He nodded. "Steve's trying, but…"

"He's hovering."

"Yeah." Of course she'd understand. Maybe that was why she'd made these overtures; she'd seen him sticking out at the party like an awkward, ex-assassin, shiny sore thumb. "Do you celebrate now? Other than going to parties thrown by insanely rich people."

"Not really. Not on my own." She gave him a furtive smile. "I do like a sappy movie once in a while. Don't tell anyone."

"Barbara Stanwyck," he blurted. Another little waving sign. Maybe _that's_ who she reminded him of. Not looks-wise, but the way she was tough and soft at the same time… Her confused little brow furrow snagged his attention and made him explain. "Uh, she made one. A sappy Christmas movie. You'd probably like it."

"Okay. I'll look that up." She crossed her arms in front of her chest, like she was starting to feel the cold, but she didn't drop eye contact with him. "So you really remember all of that stuff now? From way back then?"

"I… mostly. I think so, yeah. It's _there_, it's just… sometimes I don't know it until I have a reason to. They said—the doctors in Wakanda—they said—." He stopped. "Are you really interested in this?" But despite her placid expression, he knew that she was. She wouldn't have circled back to it otherwise.

"Mm hm."

"Well, they said that what was..._done to me_...it wasn't exactly sophisticated. So once the pathways started restoring themselves…"

"No big gaps, then?"

"It's hard to say. If there are…" He shrugged. "It's a process. That's what they said."

"The doctors."

"Yeah. Why are you asking?"

She crossed her arms tighter, and finally looked away. "You know what they did to me, right?"

He took a deep breath, not expecting this turn. "Not...No, not in detail."

"Screen memories. Know what those are?"

"I can guess," he said quietly.

"It's basically hypnosis. Like you said, not sophisticated. Just a crude party trick. They take what happened, and dress it up in different clothes. So you aren't left with any gaps." She met his eyes again. "Just lies."

"Jesus," he whispered. "Bastards." But he was torn between empathy and curiosity. "Like what?"

She was silent for a moment, and then, with a faraway smile, told him a story. "While I was in the Red Room, a Hydra officer came. And he had a dog. A huge dog; they told us it was a wolf. It might have been. It was supposed to protect us, they said. I'd been out running ops on my own since I was a kid; I didn't need protection. I think it was really supposed to scare us. Keep us in line. I was never scared of it, though. I felt sorry for it. But not just that. We understood each other, in a way. Trusted each other. It...liked me. We—" She swallowed, tamping down some unruly emotion. "We had a bond. And that was dangerous."

"They noticed."

"Yes."

He leaned in, unable not to ask. "What did they do?"

"They took him away," she said plainly. Like that was that.

"And you never saw it again," he concluded. He digested this for a minute, but it rested uneasily in his gut. That was that, but… "Did that really happen? Or was it a lie?"

"That's the tricky part." Her smile for a moment turned so deeply sad that it unsettled him, but she raised her guard again so quickly and expertly he wondered if it was even really there.

"Why are you telling me this?"

She raised her velvet-covered shoulders. "Just making conversation."

"Well," he said feebly, his own conversational skills drying up in his mouth. But she jumped in and saved him.

"It's getting colder, don't you think?"

"Do you want to go in?" He didn't know why he asked. If she wanted to, she would just go.

"Not yet. It's still nice."

Her cheeks were rosy, and they were close enough that the clouds of their breath mingled before they disappeared. "Yeah." On the other side of the leaded glass windows, the band struck up a slower tune. "Hey, I know this one," he smiled, as the opening bars of "White Christmas" floated on the air.

"It's a classic."

"No, it's a new one," he joked, and flexed his right hand as she tried to suppress a grin. "Would you…?" She tipped her head up and looked at him from under her lashes. He took a breath. "You wouldn't like to dance, would you?"

She hesitated, but not long enough that he regretted asking. "Sure," she said, with a delicate fraction of a nod.

Her palm fit inside his, and her fingertips curled around the back of his hand just so. "I'm a little rusty," he apologized, lifting his left hand to her waist. "Not literally; this version doesn't rust." She laughed that time, with a true, broad smile that gave her face a radiant new dimension, and ducked her head a little, possibly to hide it. Her right hand came to rest on his shoulder, her thumbnail lightly scraping his neck above his collar before she settled it into place. He steadied his breathing, and they started to sway. _Easy_, he thought. _Just like at the canteen._

But there'd never been anybody like her at the canteen.

She held his gaze for what seemed a long, aching minute. When she closed her eyes, he was grateful for the reprieve. He tried to memorize her face, but found he didn't have to. When he closed his own eyes, she was already there.

When he opened them again, it was snowing. She was looking up, and he did the same, into the glittering swirl of crystals, dancing on the non-existent breeze and catching the moonlight in the strangest way. She saw the confusion on his face, and inclined her head toward the roof, where two large projectors were emitting steady beams of light.

"Holographic snow," she explained. "Tony's big showstopper."

When he looked beyond the bounds of the building's top floor, he could see that it was true. The streets, trees, neighboring rooftops were all untouched. "White Christmas for the penthouse," he said. "Not so much for the little people."

She stepped in and put her head on his shoulder, startling him into stillness for a second. "Well," she said. "There's always next year."

He stared at the silky fall of her hair down her back. The false snowflakes didn't land on her hair and make a covering of lace before melting away. They only vanished. It wasn't right. It wasn't like—

He stopped short, and her supple frame tensed in his arms.

_It wasn't like—_

He was somewhere else, somewhere cold; real, hard cold, indifferent to human survival. _The trees, keep to the treeline and keep moving…_

But even from there, he could hear the edge of worry in her voice.

"Bucky?"

And then it was gone. It happened like that, sometimes. Associations, he told himself. Memory wasn't a perfect record. The doctors had told him that, too.

"Yeah, I'm— It's fine."

She had stepped back, but hadn't dropped his hand. "Are you sure? What happened?"

"Nothing," he insisted. "I—" _I imagined it. I imagined I knew what the snow in your hair should look like. Because I'm in deep, deep trouble._

"Let's go in, then." The song had changed.

He sighed, frustrated at having spoiled this unbelievable chain of events. What would have happened next? Would he have kissed her? Would she have let him?

"Come on," she nudged, and tugged on his hand.

They separated well before reaching the French doors, and when she twisted the handle and swung open the pane, more than a few sets of eyes quickly darted away. He found Steve, who made a clumsy motion to scratch his nose, index finger pointed upward.

Bucky knew what it was before he looked. _Fucking mistletoe._ He looked at Natasha, who was gently smirking, and let his imagination run wild one more time. The way he'd pull her close; how she'd taste faintly of fine tobacco and alcohol, and her own subtler intoxicants; the soft flow of her breath; the way she'd open her mouth, and rise like a wave to meet him. He saw it so clearly…

She reached up and snapped down the mistletoe, and tossed it to Thor.

"Thanks for the dance," she said, and reached out to straighten his tie again. "Merry Christmas, soldier." This time, she didn't look back as she walked away.

* * *

Bucky was trying to sleep on the train. Usually he could sleep anywhere, even with his skull rattling against the window, but it wasn't working tonight. At least Steve, sitting across from him, had been mostly silent since they'd left the party. At least he hadn't brought up—

"It wouldn't be weird, you know."

So they _were_ going to talk about this. He opened one eye reluctantly. "What?"

"You and Nat. If that's what you're worried about."

Bucky sighed and lolled his head back against the seat. "That's not what I'm worried about."

"Oh. Then what—?"

"And what do you mean it wouldn't be '_weird_'? You do remember that I once _shot her_, right?"

"It doesn't seem to bother her."

"Yeah, well maybe it should." And why _didn't_ it? She could tell him, _had_ told him, not to worry about it. That she understood, that it was in the past, all business. An almost casual dismissal, tossed off amidst the commotion of the big Fuck-You-Thanos victory party last year. And it certainly hadn't seemed to be an issue tonight. But when he thought about it, away from the whirlpool of her presence, it still bothered _him._

Steve was looking at him like he always did, like he always had. Like none of the bad stuff had ever happened. Sometimes, that made him feel worse.

He didn't like the guy, but one thing Bucky appreciated about Tony Stark was that he wasn't and would never be one of the people strangely eager to forgive him. Right now that seemed to be a club of two.

"If that's not it," Steve probed, "what's the hang-up?"

"Buddy," he said, "she's playing me. She's gotta be."

Steve frowned. "I don't think so."

"You don't think she would?"

"I think she _would_," he acknowledged. "I just don't think she _is._ Why would she?"

"I don't know." He closed his eyes and leaned against the window, ending the conversation there. He loosened the knot of his tie, and imagined her fingers under his. He imagined them traveling to stroke his neck, his face, his hair. It was so easy to do.

She _was _playing him, he was pretty sure. But until he knew why, he might as well enjoy it.

* * *

Natasha left the party late, for appearances; she didn't want it to look like she had only come for one reason. She hung out with Carol and a group of other women who gathered to drink and laugh in the library. She helped Morgan with a secret dessert-related mission. She put up with Tony's glare.

Now she was back on the seventeenth floor, changed out of her Bloomingdale's gown and into leggings and her baggiest, coziest sweater. She sat on the tufted leather sofa with the bottle of top shelf vodka Tony had sent her home with, but it was more classy than comfortable, so she soon slid into a cross-legged position on the plush area rug, in front of Tony's dumb holographic fireplace.

"_Pizdets_," she muttered, not for the first time, and took another swig from the bottle. She had pushed too hard. And worse than that, she had lost control and let herself slip too far. But it had been so long, and he was so _close…_

She leaned her head back against the cushion and it squeaked a little against her neck. She shimmied until she was almost comfortable, and closed her eyes. The fireplace threw no heat, but it did sound realistic. With one _snap, _she could almost smell the sharp resiny aroma of burning fir.

_The hunting shack was small and dilapidated, but it was shelter. They made a fire, but only long enough to heat the space before snuffing it out, not wanting the plume of smoke to be seen. They'd plowed through snowdrifts waist-high; sometimes he'd had to drag her as she fought to crawl along the crust, ice inside her gloves, under her collar, tinkling like glass chimes in her hair. She stripped down beside the stove and left her clothes to dry; they both did. They found a sheet of battered canvas and spread it over the rotting, splintered floor. She laid down, exhausted, and he covered her with his boiled wool soldier's coat. He sat facing the door, weapon on his knees, on watch, and keeping the embers burning._

_They were fools to ever think they could run away. Love made fools of people; she'd learned that now._

_When the moon had risen and was shining through the slats of the roof, she rose and clutched at his arm. "Soldat." He dropped his cheek to the back of her fingers, and she pulled at him, desperately. She drew him under the coat with her, drew him in. Made her body clay to remember the mark of his hand, his mouth, everywhere. Not for the first time...but likely for the last._

Natasha opened her eyes, and her knuckles were white as she was strangling the neck of the bottle. She drank again, and wiped her mouth. She rubbed her face, makeup smearing her hand. She roughly combed through her hair, breaking up the curls. The shade of lipstick she'd carefully chosen, the thoroughly researched style. Like it was a game.

But it wasn't a game. And it was too late to go back, even if that would be smart, even if that would be wise.

It was time to set up phase two.


	3. Chapter 3

Midtown was already filling up with tourists when Bucky exited the hellhole they had the brass to call Penn Station onto Seventh Avenue, where he'd been told a car would be waiting for him. He was five minutes early, a feat of the Acela that he hadn't imagined possible, so he could have milled around inside for a while instead of looming conspicuously on the sidewalk, but he refused to spend a second longer inside than strictly necessary, just on principle.

He scanned traffic for a minute, but nothing matched the plate number he'd been given. It was unlikely they'd just be circling the block like a taxi looking for a fare. He went over the mission specs, thin as they were, in his head again as if he hadn't done that dozens of times on the trip up from D.C. There wasn't really any need to, but it was a great distraction from the other topic that was running laps in his mind: the phone call that got him into this, and the woman on the other end of it.

Forty-eight hours ago, he'd been right where he wanted to be, which was alone in his apartment, scavenging the fridge for the last of the leftover Christmas ham and macaroni and cheese. He eyed the wedge of sweet potato pie, but Sam had threatened him with bodily harm if he touched it, so he considered that a gentlemen's agreement. When his phone made its electronic warble, he put down his stack of plates and answered without looking—he hadn't yet gotten the modern hang of _not answering _a ringing telephone—expecting Steve and more of his efforts to "include" him in "activities."

"Whatever it is, I'm not interested."

"You haven't even heard my offer, Barnes," Natasha spoke in his ear, and something fizzed and popped in his brain.

_You called me Bucky last week _, he thought. "I, uh, hey. I thought you were Steve. He's been...scheduling me."

"Maybe I'm too late, then. Are you booked for the 31st?"

"The 31st? Uh." The question had sent him into a stall.

"Do you need me to wait while you check your calendar?"

"No, nah, that's…" His mental engine kicked over. "New Year's Eve?"

"That's what it's commonly known as, yes."

"Do I have plans for New Year's Eve?" He winced; he was starting to sound like a Vaudeville routine. _Of course you don't, idiot. _"Nothing solid," he said casually. "Why?" He leaned against the kitchen counter, and his elbow landed in a pile of macaroni.

"I need a man for a job," she said, as he cursed under his breath and unspooled paper towels. "You interested?"

_She needs a man for a—? _"What kind of a job?"

"Security gig, nice and boring. I could do it on my own, but I'd rather have a partner. If you feel like coming up to the city one more time."

_A partner. _"Is this official?" he asked, but he knew he was just killing time until saying yes. "I don't have a concealed carry license in New York."

"That's okay, you'll be the muscle. And yeah, all official. We'll put you on the books as an independent contractor. It's good money for one night's work."

The money was not his primary interest. "What, uh, what made you think of me for this?" _Did anything else make you think of me, for any other reason? Or was this just a one-man week-long hangover? _

He was convinced he could hear the precise arc of her smile. "Well, I know that you already have the outfit."

So now here he was, back in Manhattan, and back in that damn dinner jacket, all at her request, and with no better idea of what her game was than he'd had last week. Maybe he'd find out tonight, though. Or maybe he would have already figured it out if he'd spent as much time on working that puzzle as he had on wondering what she'd be wearing, and if anything could possibly top that green dress.

The shiny black sedan with the right plates stopped at the corner. He looked through the windshield and groaned at the nonexistent driver. The rear passenger door opened automatically, and as he got in he said to the empty cabin, "No offense, but I fucking hate you." The SHIELD fleet car didn't respond, except to announce its destination and proceed to the Upper East Side.

The new Latverian consulate, he'd learned from the briefing book she'd sent him, was situated in a handsome Murray Hill brownstone. Tonight's…"festivities" seemed like a strong word for what he knew about the national character of Latveria. Tonight's _event _was something of a grand opening, with a bunch of bigwigs in attendance, including the Secretary General of the UN. That's why they were here: to add an extra, super-level tier to her usual protection. "Precautionary measure," Natasha had said, which meant she knew something he didn't have clearance for. He didn't know how she'd managed to get him approved for this gig at all, but it didn't surprise him that she had; she struck him as a woman who usually got what she wanted.

The car let him out around the corner, and he walked down the block until he saw the green and black flag and the gathering of fancily dressed but still somehow unglamorous people and double-parked limos outside. A car door opened and a trio of dark suits exited, followed by a woman in Ghanaian kente and headwrap. Behind the Secretary General, a flash of silver high heels and long white coat revealed itself as Natasha, her sleek red hair catching the streetlight like a flare, even as she tried to remain in the background and scope out the crowd. She spotted him, and he was transfixed by the tilt of her head for a second before he raised his hand and started toward her. It was going to be an interesting evening.

Natasha greeted him with an assertively pleasant, "You made it!" Then she kissed him on the cheek and reached up to place his earpiece, under the guise of ruffling his hair. Her fingers ran over the outside of his ear and down his neck before her hand floated away and she looped her arm through his, turning smoothly to lead him toward the entrance.

He caught the scent of her perfume, something clean, vaguely smoky, not too sweet. Around the rock in his throat, he said, "I thought this was an escort detail."

"It is," she explained, "I'm escorting her; you're escorting me."

"That wasn't in the brief."

"I like to stay flexible."

She introduced him to the UN team as "my colleague, James," and apparently she had thoroughly prepared the ground, because there were no questions. Consulate staff appeared to usher the Secretary inside, while he and Natasha joined the modest security line with the rest of the not-so-VIPs.

While they waited, always conscious of her hand on his arm, he looked up at the brownstone with all its carved details and dignified flourishes.

"High class. Not what I was expecting."

"Yeah. The old one was twenty blocks south, between a psychic and a Metro wireless."

"Why the move?"

"Rebranding. All part of Latveria's new image." At his shrug, she asked, "Have you really not heard about this?"

"I don't follow the news."

She pulled in closer, and said sotto voce. "Their new dic— new _monarch _is throwing out signals that he wants to open up the country. People are talking about 'the Wakandan model.'"

"Why?" He leaned down, exaggerating his cluelessness in the hopes of amusing her. "Did a meteor made of beets land in Latveria ten thousand years ago?"

Her lips pressed into a line and she squeezed his forearm as they approached the guard station.

He had barely had time to think, _It's a good thing vibranium doesn't set off metal detectors _, when she stepped ahead of him and shed her cashmere coat. It fell to her waist to reveal a high collar attached to a T-shaped panel of silvery fabric that left her arms and shoulders bare and made a tantalizing statement about her spine underneath. She slipped out of the sleeves and handed the coat off to an attendant before he could act on his impulse to reach out and take it. He stumbled through taking out his wallet—at least he'd remembered to leave his knife at home—and nodding at the guards, focused as he was on the angles of her shoulder blades, and the way her dress formed to her curves and flowed like mercury to the floor.

When he caught up to her in the foyer, he saw that the material was made up of tiny, interlocking metallic sequins, like fish scales—or chain mail. Unlike at the Christmas party, all her vulnerable parts were covered, except for a slit that went up her right thigh as far as was decent, and then a little higher—kicking length. Her hair was pin-straight; even her makeup meant business, dark eyes and pale lips. So it was "tough" tonight. Made sense; she was on the clock. And she was still a round one knockout.

They entered the reception area and he did a visual sweep, comparing it to the floor plans in the brief, and taking a quick headcount of consulate security. "Everything looks…normal."

If the outside of the building was Old New York, the interior design was Old, Old, Old Latveria. Lots of heavy drapes in what was apparently their national green, tapestries of happy peasant farmers that were somehow dreary, stone statuary of medieval saints and national heroes, all with the same nondescript scowl.

As they followed traffic into the central gallery, he leaned in and said quietly, "So tell me more about this enlightened new ruler. You know, in case someone tries to make conversation. I don't think I've heard of him."

"Trust me, you'd remember if you had. His name is Dr. Victor von—oh, that's him."

Over the sweeping staircase hung an oil portrait at least as big as Tony Stark's Christmas tree, its massive, cloaked and armored subject glaring out from behind a metal mask at everyone who dared to pass by. A plaque in the heavily gilded frame read simply, "DOOM."

"Wow. Okay."

"Yeah, I know."

"I was gonna keep my hand in my pocket all night to stay inconspicuous, but maybe I'd fit right in. Is that why you invited me to this?"

She made a little "hmm" of agreement. "I needed someone who could stand around and look dour, I figured you could handle that."

The guests were herded into the parlor and the solarium beyond, and they weaved their way to the front of the crowd to keep the Secretary in sight. He glanced back at the portrait. "The Wakandan model, huh?"

"That's what people are saying. Don't tell me you're skeptical."

"I'm just saying, I've been to both places, and I know where I'd book my honeymoon."

He caught the corner of her mouth turn up as she stopped and took two cut crystal goblets from a pewter tray. "You getting married, Barnes? Who's the lucky girl?"

"Vacation," he corrected, snagged on the curious arch of her brows. "I meant vacation."

"Not the marrying kind, huh?" He didn't have an answer for that, but apparently it was rhetorical. She handed him a goblet. "Here, have some Latverian chardonnay."

He nosed the glass skeptically. "Is it good?"

"Oh, god no."

They did a circuit of the party at a tangent with the Secretary's path, making periodic contact with her team. He recognized the Consul General from the briefing book, a nervous little man with bushy eyebrows. Now that he'd seen his boss, he knew why he looked so nervous. Natasha ran into an acquaintance of hers who worked at State, and "my colleague, James," was less jarring this time, although he'd prefer it without the "colleague" bit. Most of the time he stuck close to her while she chatted and charmed, and did his best to keep an eye on their assignment. So far she was right: it was an easy job, and he was almost starting to enjoy himself. It was a strange place to be more comfortable than he'd been at the Stark penthouse, but maybe it was because he was warmed up now, or because he was working. Or because the host had never tried to kill him (although, thinking about that portrait, he wouldn't rule it out for the future). Or maybe it was the _colleague _who smiled as he touched her elbow to let her know he was off to do another check of the perimeter, and come back with more unidentifiable Latverian hors d'oeuvres.

She nibbled delicately on some kind of doughy pouch that might have contained cabbage and sheep's tongue for all he knew, while they staked out a spot in the corner of the parlor.

"How is it?"

"Salty?"

"Is that a question?"

She held out the last bite. "Try it."

"I don't think so—" But as he protested, she deposited the odd morsel in his mouth, her finger touching his lip as she drew her hand away. After a second he remembered to chew.

"Well?"

"It's...meat?"

She shrugged, having amused herself enough to politely cover the remainder of the food on her plate with a napkin. "So what would you be doing tonight if you weren't here with me? Did I ruin a big night out? Or were you going to stay home alone, listening to Glenn Miller?"

"Ouch, lady. Too soon."

"Sorry. Condolences. Artie Shaw, then?"

"Artie—? Did you do research to make smalltalk with me? 'Cause I'm flattered, but for the record I was more of a Duke Ellington guy."

"Noted," she said, and he could tell that she really had noted it. He wondered what else her mental file on him contained. "What did you do for Christmas, then?"

"I— Are you really interested?"

"Of course." Her brow creased, but she quickly willed it smooth again. "I don't ask questions I don't want answers to."

He thought about making a joke, but decided since she was sincerely asking, he'd answer sincerely. "Okay. On Christmas morning, I went with Steve to the VA hospital."

"Oh." If she was putting on the way the corners of her eyes crinkled with concern, she was an even better actress than he'd thought. "How was that?"

"It was… Yeah, it was good. Not always easy, but… yeah, I'd do it again." Her eyes softened, that understanding look that made it dangerously easy to spill his guts. "Most everybody from my war...you know, they're gone now. But it's…it's all pretty much the same."

"I suppose so," she said quietly. "But you didn't have just one war, did you?"

If that was a question she wanted an answer to, he didn't get the chance. The Secretary was heading for the ladies' room, and Natasha broke away to join the entourage. She looked back at him, some concealed emotion straining to surface on her face, and for once he didn't think it was for his benefit.

_Stand around and look dour _, he thought, waiting for her return. _You can handle that. _

Her voice in his ear soon interrupted his efforts. "Is that all you did for Christmas? Steve didn't roast a turkey or something?"

He smiled despite his assignment. "We were invited to Sam's grandmother's."

"Did you go?"

"Yep."

"Did you have a good time?"

"Sure, it was swell. Great food, nice people. A... _lot _of people."

"Mm hm. How long did it take you to recover?"

"Couple days."

"It'll get easier."

"How about you? Where were you on Christmas day?"

"With Clint and his family, like usual. I probably wouldn't even bother with Christmas if it weren't for the kids."

"That guy has kids?"

She laughed. "Three. I'm sort of their godmother."

"That's a good way to make sure no one messes with them. Hey, should we be discussing this stuff in public?"

"Our earpiece transponders should be jamming anything trying to pick up this frequency."

"So we could talk about...whatever?"

"What do you want to talk about, Barnes?"

The Secretary and her team reappeared and headed for the solarium at the back of the townhouse, but Natasha wasn't with them. Bucky looked in the other direction and saw a flash of silver disappear around a corner. "How about where the hell you're going?"

"I just want to check something out. Stay with the package."

He drifted with the crowd, but glanced back when he heard Natasha chatting in Latverian with a consular employee. He saw her leaning over a desk in the reception room, feigning interest in the young staffer. She threw him a subtle nod meant to reassure; it didn't.

"Is something going down?"

He had to wait for her reply, a muted, "Give me a few minutes, and then we can get back to talking...whatever. Try and blend in." He must have been scowling, because when he saw her again, entering the solarium with two fresh glasses of turpentine in hand, she smiled and said, "That's perfect. See, I knew you could handle it."

He took the goblet and, not finding a convenient plant to dump it in, drank some more of the wine with a grimace that made her chuckle. "Sorry, a waiter forced it on me."

That wasn't what he wanted an explanation for. "What was that about?"

"Politeness?" He stared her down until she said, "Oh, that. Nothing to worry about. It's handled."

"Handled, huh?" He leaned in, making sure there was no one around before he whispered, "Okay, well, I'm going to assume it's something I don't have clearance for, but if you need a hand 'handling' it, you know, I'm available."

"Appreciate it," she said, with a hint of surprise. "You're taking this better than Steve would."

"It's business," he shrugged. That was an agenda he could understand; it wasn't the side of her that bewildered him. "Would have appreciated a heads up, though."

She put a hand on his shoulder and got close to his ear. "I'll try to get authorization for that next time."

With her very high heels, their faces were close enough to touch, if he just moved a few inches… "Next time? Are we making this a regular thing?"

He thought he saw a glint in her big green eyes, and that now-familiar tilt to her mouth that left so much unsaid. He got another draught of her perfume. "Let's just see how the rest of the night goes."

It went smoothly for the next few hours. They split up periodically—always one of them attending the package—to surveil the crowd, spot the Latverian security, check the exits. Nice and boring, like she'd said. At least the bodyguarding-a-diplomat part of it was. The escorting-Natasha-Romanoff bit of the assignment was, despite his lingering doubt over her motives, a hell of a good time. She was...stimulating, and not just in the way that made his breath hitch at her movements, made his skin wake up at her touch. He liked _talking _to her. He'd liked it at the Christmas party, too. He didn't think he would get tired of it for a long, long while.

"What else did Steve make you do for the holidays?" she asked him over comms. "You said he scheduled you."

"Yeah, he was kind of, you know, babysitting. One night we went to a movie house to see a Capra picture so he could cross it off his list. _It's a Wonderful Life _?"

"A classic."

"That's right, you said you liked sappy movies."

"It's not that sappy. What did you think?"

"I think George Bailey shoulda slugged Mr. Potter in the breadbasket. But it was good, I guess. I liked _Meet John Doe _better."

"Who's in that one?"

"Gary Cooper and..." There she was again, the tough girl with a heart of gold. "Barbara Stanwyck."

"I'm beginning to think you have a crush. She made another Christmas movie, you know. It came out in '45. _That _one has a happy ending. The one you recommended was a real tear-jerker."

"Guess I forgot that part." He didn't remember much of it, actually, not even the title. But it was just normal-person forgetting, a nice experience to have. He pictured her curled up on her sofa watching the movie, maybe thinking of him a little bit. "Did you like it, though?"

"Yeah. I liked it a lot."

At nine o'clock, the Latverian Consul General delivered prepared remarks, staring at his cards and droning on while the invited diplomats attended patiently with frozen smiles. Bucky and Natasha took position in a corner where they had a wide angle on the party and a view of the traffic in and out of the kitchen. Bucky swiped a few more mystery food lumps from a passing waiter's tray.

"Are you sure about that?"

"I didn't eat before I got here." He popped one in his mouth. "What are the chances they're trying to poison us?"

"I mean… not zero."

He swallowed it anyway. "You should tell Stark to add these to his next spread. Get people to go home earlier."

"Bring back some decorating tips, too. I'll mention the giant portrait, he might be into that."

It wasn't Bucky's place to laugh at that, but at least when he did, he felt a little bad about it.

"So what's this 'my colleague James' stuff?" he asked a little later, when it was his turn to walk the perimeter again. "I thought I was your escort."

"You know 'escort' has a different connotation now. Although now that you mention it, I did see a few people looking at you like they wanted to order you on Postmates. So maybe that would have been a better cover."

"Anything for the mission." He was enjoying this conversation, not sure if he was glad or disappointed they weren't having it face to face.

"What do you want me to call you then, Barnes?"

_Anything you want. _"I do anwer to Bucky. But—" But she _had _said it, at the Christmas party. And he'd liked it, but it wasn't quite perfect. Not from her. "James is fine, too."

"I could call you Yakov, that's Russian for James. Or Jacob, really, but it's the same thing."

"Can we go back to 'Barnes'?"

"How about…" She paused, and it could have been because someone walked by, but it felt like hesitation. "What about Yasha? That's—"

"I know." The shortened form of Yakov, the nickname, the endearment. Like Natasha. _Then we'd rhyme _, he thought stupidly. Something about all his names piled up, vibrating around his skull in her voice, made him stop for a second. He almost forgot he was supposed to be doing a job.

But then she said lightly, teasing. "Like Jim. Jimmy? That's it, Jimmy Barnes."

He made a face. _Okay, maybe not _anything _you want. _"I don't—"

"Finish up your sweep and get back here, Jimmy. You can't leave a girl alone at a party without an escort."

At eleven o'clock, they all gathered in the center gallery for a cultural presentation featuring a chamber ensemble from the Latverian National Orchestra. As they began playing their program of traditional songs, Bucky leaned toward Natasha and indicated the tapestry behind her and its hard working peasants. "Do you think this is the kind of stuff they listen to on their time off?"

"What makes you think they get time off?"

He tried to imagine people dancing gaily around a maypole to this, but he could only get them to trudge. "Maybe this is for holidays, like at Christmas when everyone gets a single crabapple."

"Or celebrating pulling a lost goat out of a well." Her dry delivery was betrayed by a little self-congratulatory twitch of her lips, and he lost a few seconds thinking about kissing her while the concert went on.

"Can't say I'll go right out and buy their record."

"Really? I already added it on Spotify."

That made him curious—not about what Spotify was, although… "What kind of music do you like? We already covered me."

"Right, Duke Ellington."

"So?"

She shrugged. "All kinds."

"Sure, everybody _says _that." He realized then that he was eight decades behind on the subject, and wouldn't recognize anything she named, anyway. "Classical? You were a dancer, right?" He forgot where he'd heard it, but having said it, his brain conjured up a startlingly detailed image. She was standing in front of a studio mirror in her black skirt and black leotard, hair restrained in a tightly disciplined braid. Her ankles were taped, her knees bruised; her face a little younger, a little leaner, determination burning in her tired eyes. It was so vivid, he almost felt like if he took one imaginary step to the right, he would see his own reflection...

"Not by choice. But yes, I was."

_Shit. _"Yeah, sorry."

"Don't be." She smiled to reassure him, but there was a dollop of irony in it. "It's a skill I worked hard at. I don't take those for granted. Besides, it wasn't all bad. I could find a little peace in it sometimes. In the work. In the…" She laughed, mocking herself. "in the _art _, or whatever. But you're right. I do like classical music." The ironic smile again. It struck him that she used it to hide real hurt underneath. "Although if I never hear _Swan Lake _again it'll be too soon."

... _the cassette clicked over and the orchestra started once more. She tried to pull herself off the floor, and a hard voice said in Russian, "Again!" But her leg buckled under her; her jaw clenched as she swallowed the pain. All he would have to do is reach out, and he could help her...but it might kill them both… _

The vignette came and went in a flash, before he could really grasp hold. His imagination had been particularly... _active _when it came to her, but this wasn't a pleasant if ungentlemanly fantasy. More like an ambush and retreat of images and feelings, intense and then elusive. Almost like…

"Hey," she said softly. "What's up? Are you remembering something?"

She was studying his face, and he collected himself under her compassionate scrutiny. He shook his head, although it was more of a reassurance than a flat denial. "Faulty wiring, that's all." He smiled.

"Right." She looked down, and nodded.

They both politely turned their attention back to the performers for a minute. "So...if I take you to the ballet, no _Swan Lake _. Got it."

That earned him something pretty close to a double take. "Are you going to take me to the ballet?"

"Well, you know. In case we have to guard the Prince of Latvia or something."

"Latvia is a parliamentary republic."

"The Prime Minister, then."

"You think we'd get to pick the ballet? On this hypothetical job?"

"What would you like to see, then? Hypothetically."

She tilted her head and he enjoyed the angle of her jaw while she mused. "Prokofiev, maybe. Stravinsky. _Rite of Spring _."

"Isn't that the one that people flipped their lids over? What's it about, anyway?"

"A virgin sacrifice."

"Oh. Relatable."

"It is to some of us." Her tone said she was joking...mostly. "I danced in _Petrushka _once. Do you know that one?"

"Can't say as I do." But if she wanted to tell him, he'd listen. He'd listen to her talk all night.

"It's about puppets."

"Puppets? Like…?" He moved his hand like a mouth, and she laughed and shook her head.

She subtly lifted her arm, with a delicate little jerk, as if it was on a string. "Like this. Marionettes." She held his gaze again, in a way that was becoming unsettlingly familiar. Like she was seeking something, until he flinched minutely and, disappointed again, she looked away. It was enough to do a guy's head in. But he didn't want her to stop; he wanted to win the game, and deliver up whatever prize she was playing for.

"Now I can relate." His joke only half-landed; her flickering smile was too sad. _Don't be sad for me, doll. I can't take it. _"So what's the story?" he prompted her.

"Petrushka's a stock character. A fool. The magician, the puppeteer, brings him to life along with two others. Petrushka loves the Ballerina—that was me—but she loves his rival, the Moor."

"I assume everything works out great for ol' Petrushka, though."

"His rival murders him and he haunts the puppeteer."

"Oh, a Russian happy ending," he said, and her tiny smirk delighted him.

"I had a secret when I played it, though."

"Yeah?"

"When I danced it, the Ballerina was only pretending to love the Moor. Playing out her part."

Intrigued, he asked, "Did she love Petrushka?"

"She didn't get to decide who she loved," she said. As if nothing else made sense. "She was a puppet."

"Oh." He felt a little dumb, realizing then it wasn't just him she was sad for. "So you like that modern stuff, huh?" he asked, determined to bring up the mood.

She laughed. "Yeah, I guess."

"Like Shostakovich?"

"Sure. You know a little about this?" she asked with genuine surprise, to which he tried not to take offense.

"A very little," he admitted. "The minimum. We went to Carnegie Hall once to see what's-his-name, not Toscanini, the other guy. Stokowski. They played Shostakovich that night."

"What did you think?"

"I thought it was pretty okay," he recalled. "Kind of...moody. Steve preferred Beethoven."

"Really? Would have figured him for more of a John Philip Sousa guy."

He grinned. _God, what a peach. _"See, that's something else we could do together. Bust Steve's chops."

"It's not as much fun when he's not around."

"Then we'll have to find ways to have fun without him, because if I take you out again we're definitely not inviting Steve."

Beyond a brief upward press of her lips, she didn't address the hypothetical invitation this time. He chose to read that as closer to a yes than a no. "I'm trying to picture you two at the symphony. Getting some culture."

"Well, Steve wanted to get culture. I thought it would be a good way to impress a girl. Louise Bonifazio."

"Ah ha." Her eyebrows went up. "Special girl?" If she was fishing, she had him on the hook.

"Nah." Realizing how that sounded, he added, "I'm sure she was special to someone. Just— You know, there were a lot of—"

"It's okay, stop digging."

"There weren't really any—" She hadn't asked, and it wouldn't matter anyway—it was eighty years ago, for pete's sake—but for some reason he needed to tell her. "I didn't have a Peggy."

She was quiet for a second. "Good."

Interesting. "'Good'?"

"Steve is still carrying that around." That was true, of course, but it was also a smooth answer. He noticed her press her thumbnail into the heel of her opposite hand, and wondered if she had a tell. "Heartbreak sucks." She said it casually, but her intent, fixed look made him feel like he was on the edge of something.

He stuck his toe over. "You know from experience?"

"I have a history," she said, her voice lilting like a fluttering curtain, hiding some kind of wreckage behind. "Like anyone." But she wasn't just anyone. She was a fighter, like him; but it wasn't the drudging endurance of a soldier—she was fierce and agile, built to adapt, overcome, and survive. It must have taken a hell of a lot of damage to break a heart that strong.

There was a wire of sharp sorrow running beneath her patient, searching stare. He didn't know whether she was showing it to him on purpose, but he felt it pulling at him, tangling him up. "Anybody I know?" he asked quietly. "This guy who broke your heart. I just wanna talk to him."

She reeled back on her heels a little, eyes wide, a cough of shocked laughter expelled from her diaphragm.

"I'm— Sorry, I don't— Not my place, I get it. It was—" It was not a joke.

She turned her head down and to the side, as if she was listening to her earpiece. When she looked up again, her face was a mask of professionalism. It stung, but he was able to re-tune himself to her frequency immediately. This was why they were here, after all: to do a job, not to swoon and make time. He'd let himself forget it too easily. Still a little voice inside argued against his strategic retreat: _You know it's not just making time, you know it's more than that. _

"I have to go," she said. "You stay with the package."

Right. The job. "Maybe I can help—"

She shook her head. "_ Stay _with the _package. _This won't take long."

She walked away, and he paced her for a few steps as they moved out of their spot into the wider room. The concert presentation had ended, and people were filtering out of the gallery off into different areas of the consulate. "At least tell me your window, in case something goes wrong," he insisted.

"Ten minutes," she relented, and pointed behind him, where he turned to see the Secretary General being herded in the opposite direction. "Fifteen at the outside. _Go. _"

He nodded, and caught up with his assigned protectee, who seemed as politely bored and as free from any signs of danger or distress as she had all night. He tried to track Natasha through the crowd, a flash of silver and red amidst the diplomatic drab, but he lost her on the staircase, which she trotted up beside the young consular aide she'd been chatting up earlier.

"Keep your comms open, please," he muttered. No response. "Natasha?" He stretched his perimeter as far from the package as he dared. He checked his watch at two minutes, and tried again; nothing. Three checks later, at +08:47, she clicked over to his channel.

"Wrapping up soon. No issues. Told you this was an easy night's work."

He tried to keep his huff of relief and his concerned frown out of his reply. This was her show, and she could handle herself. "What's your position? Just in case." She hesitated. "Come on, you're already off-brief, you might as well bring me in on this all the way."

"Northeast corner. Third floor."

"Check. Still looking like hard out at fifteen?"

"Yep. I—oh—"

_Shit. _He straightened, on high alert. "What's happening?"

A man's voice carried over her comms; he must have been close. He was speaking Latverian, harsh and accusing. She started speaking Russian, as if she didn't understand, her voice innocent, sweetly placating, and open to negotiation. "_ I have an appointment with the Consul General, I was told I could wait here. But if his plans have changed, I might have an hour free…" _

Bucky didn't speak Latverian, but he didn't have to to understand how the man scoffed at her. The old lady-of-the-evening routine had probably worked better before she had the public profile of an Avenger. Meanwhile, he was already moving through the party doing a grid scan, counting heads. _Shit, shit. _

"Nat, he's not consulate security, they're all accounted for. So whatever you're after, chances are he wants it, too."

She switched to Latverian, all business now, but he could tell the talks weren't going well. Bucky was now bulling his way through the crowd, toward the main stairs, but he would definitely draw more attention from security ascending them than she had. She hadn't brought him along to put the overt into her covert ops. Then he remembered there were servants' stairs in the back, he'd seen it in the brief, and headed for the kitchen. _Walk fast, look dour _, he told himself, and the staff mostly ignored him.

Natasha and the interloper's exchange grew more volatile. There was only one reason she would have let it go on this long without taking him out: he'd drawn on her and hadn't yet given her an opening to disarm him.

"I'm on my way," he told her, mounting the stairs two and three at a time.

"_ Nyet—" _

When he heard the shot, he was already running.

* * *

_Fucking collect yourself, Nataliya _, she thought, as she lay on her back in the hallway outside the Latverian Consul General's quarters.

It was the same phrase she had admonished herself with less than fifteen minutes ago, as she pretended to get a message over her earpiece. It was close to midnight anyway, and time to carry out the night's secondary mission was growing short. So she'd left the tertiary mission—apologies to the Secretary General—in the charge of her primary mission and hustled upstairs, eager for the reprieve of some nice, simple espionage after an evening that had been simultaneously the best date she'd been on in years, without question, and a punishing emotional ordeal that she had no one to blame for but herself. Every question, every look or touch, every hint, nudge, or prod that was meant to guide him through this last mile of maze, entrenched as it was, cost her a little more. But that was Phase Two of her self-assigned mission, going according to plan.

"Anyone you know," she muttered. "Fucking hell, _soldatik. _"

She heard pounding footsteps come around the corner and stop short. Her right hand twitched toward her thigh holster and the Glock she hadn't had a chance to pull, but it was no use. Even with vibranium alloy chainmail, it took a minute to recover from a gunshot. The energy dissipation had left her body stunned, and there would be an impressive bruise on her abdomen where the bullet had deformed and merged with the mail in an ugly, scorched stain. It was such a nice dress, too.

Natasha coughed, groaned, and opened her eyes. No need for the Glock anyway. He stood at her feet-Bucky or James or Yasha, wherever that carousel had stopped—staring, not blankly, but like he was lost somewhere. She breathed deeply in and out, once. _Collect. Yourself. _

She lifted her head, and he appeared to come back to the present. "I thought I told you," she said, and paused for another breath, "to stay with the package."

He knelt beside her. "Yeah, I'm not so good at taking orders anymore. Are you—? I heard suppressor fire."

"I'm fine." She pushed herself onto her elbows, and his eyes traveled down her body to the site of the impact. He huffed in relief. She smoothed down the scales in one direction, and smiled to see the damage became barely noticeable. "You're not the only one with Wakanda connections. A gift from Okoye." She sat up and clamped shut her matching bracelet, lighter one spent Widow's Bite. "Since you're here anyway, you want to help me with him?" She indicated the hostile, a compact, sandy-haired man crumpled against the opposite wall, with the tell-tale spider web of electrical burns spread over his neck and face. "We've only got a few minutes before their security comes back online."

He helped her to her feet, and watched as she secured her weapon and readjusted the slit in her gown. "I guess you got what you came for."

_Still working on it, actually, _she thought. "Yup."

"And you can't tell me what it is." He hoisted the unconscious man over his shoulder, where she confirmed he still had a pulse.

"Nope. Sorry."

He shrugged, and the man's legs flopped like a ragdoll. "Business is business."

She led him back into the consul's suite, toward a pair of French doors off the bedroom. A mantel clock read 11:55. "You're taking this a lot better than Steve," she told him as they stepped out onto the shallow balcony.

"You know, as a rule I'm not crazy about being compared to Steve, but I'll take it just this one time." He looked around. "So, just…?" He pointed his thumb over the rail.

They were directly over the solarium. "That would be a memorable end to the party." She leaned over and considered their options. "Over there." She pointed to the building next door. "Looks like no one's home. Try and get him onto their deck. I'll call it in and have him picked up."

He paused to consider the physics. "Hey, what if he's Latverian secret police or something?"

"Like you've never caused a diplomatic incident before?"

"Not so as I could enjoy it."

"Well, happy to be your first. Anyway, I don't think he's Latverian. The accent was off." She patted him down, and while she didn't find any ID- "A ha." She raised his ankle and pushed down his sock. "Thought so."

"Jesus Christ," said Bucky upon seeing the Hydra tattoo. "What the hell kind of penny-ante world-domination outfit is this? Was it always this...stupid?"

"It's a mixed bag," she said.

The Hydra agent landed with a heavy _thwump _on the neighbors' outdoor chaise lounge, but it wouldn't be jarring enough for New Yorkers to take notice.

From two floors down, the chamber ensemble had started up again. "Auld Lang Syne" had never sounded so much like a dirge.

"Well, this was fun, but…we should get back," she said, unable to keep her reluctance from bleeding through.

"You sure you're okay?" He gestured toward the mark on her dress as she stepped closer to him without thinking; his hand brushed against her stomach before he drew it away. They hadn't been alone like this since the Christmas party. She had almost lost control, then, too.

"No permanent damage," she assured him. Downstairs, guests awkwardly sang the final chorus. "Should auld acquaintance be forgot," she murmured. He knitted his brow, and she felt guilty and weary of being a puzzle he had to try and work out. She wanted to grab his face, end his confusion by just _telling _him. That would hardly end it, though, she knew. No, he had to get there on his own.

A subdued cheer drifted up from the party, just as similar, if more exuberant, ones echoed all around the city.

"_S novym godom _," she said, at the same time he asked, "Why am I really here, Natasha?"

Through all of this, for all the vagueness and double meanings, she hadn't lied. She'd made careful, deliberate choices, but she hadn't faked a single moment. That wasn't part of the plan.

"For this," she said. She reached out and tucked his collar back into place, and let her hand linger on his lapel. "For something just like this."

They both jumped as her bracelet's timer shrilled out its forgotten warning.

"Ah, _chert _." She grabbed his hand and ran.


End file.
